Pavel Petrovitch did not long remain present at his brother's interview
with his bailiff, a tall, thin man with a sweet consumptive voice and
knavish eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovitch's remarks answered,
'Certainly, sir,' and tried to make the peasants out to be thieves and
drunkards. The estate had only recently been put on to the new reformed
system, and the new mechanism worked, creaking like an ungreased wheel,
warping and cracking like homemade furniture of unseasoned wood.
Nikolai Petrovitch did not lose heart, but often he sighed, and was
gloomy; he felt that the thing could not go on without money, and his
money was almost all spent. Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel
Petrovitch had more than once helped his brother; more than once,
seeing him struggling and cudgelling his brains, at a loss which way to
turn, Pavel Petrovitch moved deliberately to the window, and with his
hands thrust into his pockets, muttered between his teeth, '_mais je
puis vous de l'argent_,' and gave him money; but to-day he had none
himself, and he preferred to go away. The petty details of agricultural
management worried him; besides, it constantly struck him that Nikolai
Petrovitch, for all his zeal and industry, did not set about things in
the right way, though he would not have been able to point out
precisely where Nikolai Petrovitch's mistake lay. 'My brother's not
practical enough,' he reasoned to himself; 'they impose upon him.'
Nikolai Petrovitch, on the other hand, had the highest opinion of Pavel
Petrovitch's practical ability, and always asked his advice. 'I'm a
soft, weak fellow, I've spent my life in the wilds,' he used to say;
'while you haven't seen so much of the world for nothing, you see
through people; you have an eagle eye.' In answer to which Pavel
Petrovitch only turned away, but did not contradict his brother.
Leaving Nikolai Petrovitch in his study, he walked along the corridor,
which separated the front part of the house from the back; when he had
reached a low door, he stopped in hesitation, then pulling his
moustaches, he knocked at it.
'Who's there? Come in,' sounded Fenitchka's voice.
'It's I,' said Pavel Petrovitch, and he opened the door.
Fenitchka jumped up from the chair on which she was sitting with her
baby, and giving him into the arms of a girl, who at once carried him
out of the room, she put straight her kerchief hastily.
'Pardon me, if I disturb you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, not looking at
her; 'I only wanted to ask you ... they are sending into the town
to-day, I think ... please let them buy me some green tea.'
'Certainly,' answered Fenitchka; 'how much do you desire them to buy?'
'Oh, half a pound will be enough, I imagine. You have made a change
here, I see,' he added, with a rapid glance round him, which glided
over Fenitchka's face too. 'The curtains here,' he explained, seeing
she did not understand him.
'Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovitch was so good as to make me a
present of them; but they have been put up a long while now.'
'Yes, and it's a long while since I have been to see you. Now it is
very nice here.'
'Thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch's kindness,' murmured Fenitchka.
'You are more comfortable here than in the little lodge you used to
have?' inquired Pavel Petrovitch urbanely, but without the slightest
smile.
'Certainly, it's more comfortable.'
'Who has been put in your place now?'
'The laundry-maids are there now.'
'Ah!'
Pavel Petrovitch was silent. 'Now he is going,' thought Fenitchka; but
he did not go, and she stood before him motionless.
'What did you send your little one away for?' said Pavel Petrovitch at
last. 'I love children; let me see him.'
Fenitchka blushed all over with confusion and delight. She was afraid
of Pavel Petrovitch; he had scarcely ever spoken to her.
'Dunyasha,' she called; 'will you bring Mitya, please.' (Fenitchka did
not treat any one in the house familiarly.) 'But wait a minute, he must
have a frock on,' Fenitchka was going towards the door.
'That doesn't matter,' remarked Pavel Petrovitch.
'I will be back directly,' answered Fenitchka, and she went out
quickly.
Pavel Petrovitch was left alone, and he looked round this time with
special attention. The small low-pitched room in which he found himself
was very clean and snug. It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of
camomile. Along the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought
by the late general on his campaign in Poland; in one corner was a
little bedstead under a muslin canopy beside an iron-clamped chest with
a convex lid. In the opposite corner a little lamp was burning before a
big dark picture of St. Nikolai the wonder-worker; a tiny porcelain egg
hung by a red ribbon from the protruding gold halo down to the saint's
breast; by the windows greenish glass jars of last year's jam carefully
tied down could be seen; on their paper covers Fenitchka herself had
written in big letters 'Gooseberry'; Nikolai Petrovitch was
particularly fond of that preserve. On a long cord from the ceiling a
cage hung with a short-tailed siskin in it; he was constantly chirping
and hopping about, the cage was constantly shaking and swinging, while
hempseeds fell with a light tap on to the floor. On the wall just above
a small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai
Petrovitch in various attitudes, taken by an itinerant photographer;
there too hung a photograph of Fenitchka herself, which was an absolute
failure; it was an eyeless face wearing a forced smile, in a dingy
frame, nothing more could be made out; while above Fenitchka, General
Yermolov, in a Circassian cloak, scowled menacingly upon the Caucasian
mountains in the distance, from beneath a little silk shoe for pins
which fell right on to his brows.
Five minutes passed; bustling and whispering could be heard in the next
room. Pavel Petrovitch took up from the chest of drawers a greasy book,
an odd volume of Masalsky's _Musketeer_, and turned over a few
pages.... The door opened, and Fenitchka came in with Mitya in her
arms. She had put on him a little red smock with embroidery on the
collar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathing
heavily, his whole body working, and his little hands waving in the
air, as is the way with all healthy babies; but his smart smock
obviously impressed him, an expression of delight was reflected in
every part of his little fat person. Fenitchka had put her own hair too
in order, and had arranged her kerchief; but she might well have
remained as she was. And really is there anything in the world more
captivating than a beautiful young mother with a healthy baby in her
arms?
'What a chubby fellow!' said Pavel Petrovitch graciously, and he
tickled Mitya's little double chin with the tapering nail of his
forefinger. The baby stared at the siskin, and chuckled.
'That's uncle,' said Fenitchka, bending her face down to him and
slightly rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set in the window a
smouldering perfumed stick, putting a halfpenny under it.
'How many months old is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.
'Six months; it will soon be seven, on the eleventh.'
'Isn't it eight, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' put in Dunyasha, with some
timidity.
'No, seven; what an idea!' The baby chuckled again, stared at the
chest, and suddenly caught hold of his mother's nose and mouth with all
his five little fingers. 'Saucy mite,' said Fenitchka, not drawing her
face away.
'He's like my brother,' observed Pavel Petrovitch.
'Who else should he be like?' thought Fenitchka.
'Yes,' continued Pavel Petrovitch, as though speaking to himself;
'there's an unmistakable likeness.' He looked attentively, almost
mournfully, at Fenitchka.
'That's uncle,' she repeated, in a whisper this time.
'Ah! Pavel! so you're here!' was heard suddenly the voice of Nikolai
Petrovitch.
Pavel Petrovitch turned hurriedly round, frowning; but his brother
looked at him with such delight, such gratitude, that he could not help
responding to his smile.
'You've a splendid little cherub,' he said, and looking at his watch,
'I came in here to speak about some tea.'
And, assuming an expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovitch at once
went out of the room.
'Did he come of himself?' Nikolai Petrovitch asked Fenitchka.
'Yes; he knocked and came in.'
'Well, and has Arkasha been in to see you again?'
'No. Hadn't I better move into the lodge, Nikolai Petrovitch?'
'Why so?'
'I wonder whether it wouldn't be best just for the first.'
'N ... no,' Nikolai Petrovitch brought out hesitatingly, rubbing his
forehead. 'We ought to have done it before.... How are you, fatty?' he
said, suddenly brightening, and going up to the baby, he kissed him on
the cheek; then he bent a little and pressed his lips to Fenitchka's
hand, which lay white as milk upon Mitya's little red smock.
'Nikolai Petrovitch! what are you doing?' she whispered, dropping her
eyes, then slowly raising them. Very charming was the expression of her
eyes when she peeped, as it were, from under her lids, and smiled
tenderly and a little foolishly.
Nikolai Petrovitch had made Fenitchka's acquaintance in the following
manner. He had once happened three years before to stay a night at an
inn in a remote district town. He was agreeably struck by the cleanness
of the room assigned to him, the freshness of the bed-linen. Surely the
woman of the house must be a German? was the idea that occurred to him;
but she proved to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty, neatly dressed,
of a good-looking, sensible countenance and discreet speech. He entered
into conversation with her at tea; he liked her very much. Nikolai
Petrovitch had at that time only just moved into his new home, and not
wishing to keep serfs in the house, he was on the look-out for
wage-servants; the woman of the inn on her side complained of the small
number of visitors to the town, and the hard times; he proposed to her
to come into his house in the capacity of housekeeper; she consented.
Her husband had long been dead, leaving her an only daughter,
Fenitchka. Within a fortnight Arina Savishna (that was the new
housekeeper's name) arrived with her daughter at Maryino and installed
herself in the little lodge. Nikolai Petrovitch's choice proved a
successful one. Arina brought order into the household. As for
Fenitchka, who was at that time seventeen, no one spoke of her, and
scarcely any one saw her; she lived quietly and sedately, and only on
Sundays Nikolai Petrovitch noticed in the church somewhere in a side
place the delicate profile of her white face. More than a year passed
thus.
One morning, Arina came into his study, and bowing low as usual, she
asked him if he could do anything for her daughter, who had got a spark
from the stove in her eye. Nikolai Petrovitch, like all stay-at-home
people, had studied doctoring and even compiled a homoeopathic guide.
He at once told Arina to bring the patient to him. Fenitchka was much
frightened when she heard the master had sent for her; however, she
followed her mother. Nikolai Petrovitch led her to the window and took
her head in his two hands. After thoroughly examining her red and
swollen eye, he prescribed a fomentation, which he made up himself at
once, and tearing his handkerchief in pieces, he showed her how it
ought to be applied. Fenitchka listened to all he had to say, and then
was going. 'Kiss the master's hand, silly girl,' said Arina. Nikolai
Petrovitch did not give her his hand, and in confusion himself kissed
her bent head on the parting of her hair. Fenitchka's eye was soon well
again, but the impression she had made on Nikolai Petrovitch did not
pass away so quickly. He was for ever haunted by that pure, delicate,
timidly raised face; he felt on the palms of his hands that soft hair,
and saw those innocent, slightly parted lips, through which pearly
teeth gleamed with moist brilliance in the sunshine. He began to watch
her with great attention in church, and tried to get into conversation
with her. At first she was shy of him, and one day meeting him at the
approach of evening in a narrow footpath through a field of rye, she
ran into the tall thick rye, overgrown with cornflowers and wormwood,
so as not to meet him face to face. He caught sight of her little head
through a golden network of ears of rye, from which she was peeping out
like a little animal, and called affectionately to her--
'Good-evening, Fenitchka! I don't bite.'
'Good-evening,' she whispered, not coming out of her ambush.
By degrees she began to be more at home with him, but was still shy in
his presence, when suddenly her mother, Arina, died of cholera. What
was to become of Fenitchka? She inherited from her mother a love for
order, regularity, and respectability; but she was so young, so alone.
Nikolai Petrovitch was himself so good and considerate.... It's
needless to relate the rest....
'So my brother came in to see you?' Nikolai Petrovitch questioned her.
'He knocked and came in?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that's a good thing. Let me give Mitya a swing.'
And Nikolai Petrovitch began tossing him almost up to the ceiling, to
the huge delight of the baby, and to the considerable uneasiness of the
mother, who every time he flew up stretched her arms up towards his
little bare legs.
Pavel Petrovitch went back to his artistic study, with its walls
covered with handsome bluish-grey hangings, with weapons hanging upon a
variegated Persian rug nailed to the wall; with walnut furniture,
upholstered in dark green velveteen, with a _renaissance_ bookcase of
old black oak, with bronze statuettes on the magnificent writing-table,
with an open hearth. He threw himself on the sofa, clasped his hands
behind his head, and remained without moving, looking with a face
almost of despair at the ceiling. Whether he wanted to hide from the
very walls that which was reflected in his face, or for some other
reason, he got up, drew the heavy window curtains, and again threw
himself on the sofa.